The Failure Factory

A Dominican hacker with stories from the Southside of Chicago enters a Hong Kong hotel room wearing a badge that reads “Julian Assange”.

Channing Tatum with no chains on arrives alongside a slew of faux police cadets  a little past two am.

Someone opens the rear window in the factory-plant when the music drops alongside the Kid’s pants.

As the dancing cadets situate chairs, empty and filled between their groins, the beltway on the factory level continues its churn of tasteless marshmallow candies.

The rhythms sync to a carefully curated playlist of R&B while Warhol watches smoking an e-cigarette in the corner whispering to a young Columbian art star.

A Vanity Fair profiler scratches into his notepad in bewilderment of the seemingly chaotic production at play between the hotel scenes and the assembly line nature of the work in front of him.

He writes about the plastic guitar hero guitars, the cement, the videos ripped from YouTube without credit, the stoning of originality, the beheading of professionalism,  and the amateurism.

Philanthropic Amateurism.

Activist Amateurism.

Amateurism as practice in a legal and medical sense.

Amateurism as litigated defense in the 9th circuit of appeals.

There’s another entire section of the factory that remains covered in green exclusively for the moments when Shia Labeouf might come to flex how he really feels after a hard day’s work.

In this particular void, ethical questions regarding appropriation and accreditation to influences are raised.

It’s here where a certain underdog artist spends his weekdays with The Weekend for a time persisting to make mistakes with no gallery space for atonement only to find himself paraphrasing a certain Toronto based rapper.

And it’s there where the bottom starts, where the wolves lose out and drowned out, where late night calls in a turtle-neck sweater meet the rotating structure of a light installation meant to be more than a marketing meme.

Because maybe meaning can’t be attached to all the mistakes made on the assembly line.

But perhaps the mapmaker with lowquat picking habits can step in as curator, degree or not, and rationalize it all into semblance.

And then, maybe the strike will begin to halt production once and for all.




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